The way Indians treat those doing their menial work is an eye-opener for this NRI. Their appalling rudeness and indignity are an absolute no-no
By Bikram Vohra
I abhor the S word. I never allowed it to be used in my home. They are all part of the family, however schmaltzy it sounds. My children have grown up showing respect, not that of the mealy-mouthed variety, but proper courtesy to those who work in the house. I expect that their children will be given the same values because otherwise, the baton has been dropped and that ends the race.
That I have been often taken advantage of is something that goes with the territory. The flaw doesn’t lie in the fact that someone financially badly off demeans himself or herself by working under your roof. The fracture lies in the incontrovertible fact that you behave as if you are superior as a human being.
CRASS & CONTROLLING
Before I go any further, let me tell you what I would do if the three boys in a poignant story I read in an Indian magazine were to be taken off the street where they are brutally exploited and work at my place. I would strengthen them, teach them hygiene, pride in their work and give them an education. I would make sure I feed them the same food I eat and as God is my witness, I would not make two types of rice, so stop right there. Naturally, they are far too young to work legally, but let us assume it is okay for the sake of the narrative. Clearly, it is okay to cart a kid to a mall and make her do all the work while you scarf cotton candy so the child labor laws are mere papier mache. Heart-break over watching a rich family eat while their minor domestic watches them is common. But it solves nothing. But for every upstart, ugly Indian family that behaves so crassly, I am sure there are others who would not think twice before giving a kid a treat.
Take them off the street and educate them. Pay for one child and forgo one shopping trip for inanity each month.
When we were growing up in an army atmosphere, most of my friends were the sons of the workers and we fought and played hockey and cricket every evening and not once did we, the kids of officers, believe that because they went home to a semi-slum or were barefoot, they were any less than us. Fifty years later, I remember each one’s name and I wish I could track them. They made some of my fondest memories of growing up. I remember my 14th birthday at the Defence Services Staff College in Wellington, Nilgiris, where I invited all 15 of my friends and the day before the party, all 15 said they could not come because their parents said it was not right. I was devastated. I went home and said if they don’t come, no party, period. Finally, my dad who was then a colonel in the army, had to order the parents to send their children and they sent them because of that order and we had a blast and I could never comprehend the social divide and 50 years later, I still don’t. And I am so avidly grateful for that blindness.
So this para is for my best friend, Tickler, who was the sweeper’s son and a damn good hockey player. I don’t know where Tick is, but I hope his children have been successful and made a move up and if they are in a position to read this article, that would be so splendid.
My wife and I argue about it. Often with contention. She says it is my love for the homage, the sense of importance that it gives me. I have had people tell me it is a complex, it is that people like this are less threatening. I have even been told it is arrogance, conceit, hubris. Occasionally, I am accused of finding them more interesting than our social circle. Has it struck anyone maybe they are!
HOW RUDE IS THIS?
And now I have lived away from India 30 years and it is one of those “we live abroad so when we visit we notice it” things for which us NRIs get a lot of stick. But some things do sort of hit us differently. Like whenever I come home to Delhi, I am appalled at the way people speak to domestic help, part-time, full-time, any time. There is an immediate change of tone. Never have been able to understand the need for that. There is also an underlying rudeness in the way the helper is summoned. Oye, hey, abbey, ohohoh, even a physical snap of the fingers. You are calling another human being, he’s going to do your dirty work anyway, why can’t you be polite. I cringe, I truly do.
The colony I stay in, some crusty old-timer objected to a laborer riding his bicycle past him without getting off…did not show respect. In 2014?We think nothing of giving stale food to domestic staff. People talk about them and their untrustworthiness in front of them. I have heard it.
In our complex, there is a part-time maid invasion every morning. They charge in like a battalion going to take a picket and then get stopped at the elevator because some memsahib won’t let them enter the elevator in case they contaminate her blue blood. Anywhere else that would be blatant racism. Here, it is acceptable as conduct. And who the heck says memsahib anymore?
Yes, I know, it is no longer that bad and there are people out there who treat their help with grace and courtesy and almost make them family and don’t cook cheap food facsimiles to feed them but really, not that much has changed.
SALAAM INDIA
The amount of “salaam sahib” crap you see can be quite overwhelming in its servility but it is so terribly insincere. Anyone uses the “S” word in my house, they get into a mountain of trouble even if they are visiting.
I might get stick for it and you don’t notice it, but it is flinch-worthy and over here, the second worst scenario is the way women talk to male domestic help, yelling, calling them names and being obnoxious.
I put my hands up. You won’t agree with me but I see it in the car park regularly, memsahib giving the poor sod hell as he swallows his ire…
Let me tell you something. I am glad I gave some guys a little nudge in the right direction. I don’t pretend to great humility, I believe in there lies great vanity. I have bullied others into helping. I have seen some people who worked in our house years ago, today owning homes and sending their children to expensive schools. I have taken over 200 people to the Gulf, often on my dime. Some are sharply ungrateful. No good deed goes unpunished.
Have I been taken for a ride? You bet, on a mule. Been conned, deceived, lied to so blatantly that it leaves you reeling? Certainly. No one forgives you easily for changing their lives. It is a very heavy burden. And you don’t have to like the ingratitude but the few victories are worth it.
Because in the end, on a day-to-day basis, the one cardinal sin is not what you say but how you make people feel. You make them feel small, they’ll never forgive you.
Give the rich their maids, just don’t stint on the cotton candy.